Single only wish

          Yesterday was my one month anniversary of being single, again. After a relationship that spanned seven months of dating and a year of being friends. *sigh* Guess what? A month doesn't actually go all that far toward getting you over someone like that. I think this month has mainly served to make me get used to the idea of being single again.
       You know something? I have a really bad attitude toward being single. This is my second time being dumped in a relationship I had given myself to completely and had set most of my hope on. Maybe it's just BYU, but I begin to feel like I'm no longer the shiny and new girl gleaming from the single-shelf. I feel like I'm in the back store of the single-thrift store, an already used, slightly worn product with threadbare edges. I won't be able to whisper "that's the first time I've ever said that to anyone" to the next person to whom I say "I love you." I could be on the brink of committing to marriage and not be able to smile with clear eyes and say, "I've never felt like this about anyone." "No one's ever known me/understood me as well as you do" is another phrase I've lost my verbal-virginity for. I can't even say, "nothing has ever hurt this badly" as I try to get over this, because it's the second time for even this. Not that that makes it easier, it just means I'm already familiar with and sick of the feeling.  I know that my experiences actually make me more aware of what I want and 
a better partner in a relationship.  But they've also given me some pretty sweet 
trust issues. 
     Additionally, I'm beginning to wonder about my odds--many people go their lifetimes and only find one person--if that--who understands them to the core and with whom they could happily spend every day. I've found two. So what are my odds of finding a third? What are my odds of finding a third anytime soon?  
    But anyway, besides feeling slightly like second-hand goods, my attitude toward being single is made even worse by the fact that I know how
 good it feels to be with someone.  I know what it feels like to have yourself come 
alive through a relationship, until it feels like life is so much more worthwhile, so
 much more vivd, so much better lived with someone.   And so learning to be single again is like feeling my heart shrink four sizes and slough off skin.  It's like a green tree that suddenly starts losing leaves.  

So what can I do?  Nothing.  There's nothing I can do.  Just lose my leaves, feel my sap retreat to my roots, wrap myself up in a cold blanket and wait for spring.  However it long it takes.  

favorite line I ever censored from an email before sending:

"I hope you have a great day, and do not, no matter what I may say to the contrary, go to Hell."

Lessons

 

It's funny, whenever I feel like seven months of strain were a waste, I suddenly realize that I'm different. I'm more responsible. I budget, I make small things happen, my room has been clean for almost a week. I eat more cheaply, more heathily. I'm better at living my life. I grew up some.

Now I'm learning to be carefree again. It feels almost weird not to have something to worry about constantly. But my carefree life will have a more stable foundation because of you. Thanks.

Games

They lean over their cards, heads close, setting up the game. She takes longer, glancing too often at his hands, his face, his eyes… Guiltily, she begins the game with energy. Double solitaire, the game where two people win and lose alone, together. Although he says nothing, she thrills to see him play, giggling when he blocks her, blushing when he helps, preening when she triumphs. Her game is going well, she flips out cards with an intent half-smile. His game slows—but that’s normal. A card will be played, he’ll get “unstuck.” His game stops, he flips through his cards, same cards, again. She plays quicker, barely seeing her cards, hoping each one will be the one he needs. Not that one. Not this one. She tosses them out with worried eyes, frowning at her cards; she’s winning. She reaches out cards, he seems to recede. She bows her head, too. Tears and cards from her, from him, silence. His hands slow, his face down, eyes hidden. Same cards, flip through, again. She plays, still hoping each card will be the one that frees him, he sets down his cards. Desperate, she faces him, clutching her thin stack of cards, he looks away. He unfolds his legs, walks away. Done. Daniel is not playing anymore.

Ooh! Shiny!!!

The other day I craved a ring. A shiny one with diamonds. I was looking at the sea of wedding rings that seems to surround me daily and thought "I want one!" The funny thing though, was that I don't think I wanted it because I'm marriage hungry. Oh no, I am much more shallow than that. I wanted one because they're pretty, and I like pretty things. That's right, pretty, sparkley things. I think the craving is worse because it seems that everyone has one except me these days. So it's like the ultimate fashion accessory--classy, gorgeous, lasts the rest of your life, and I'm the only one without one. It's like being the only one without your ears pierced, or without a perfect black dress. Or being the last little girl in your primary class to graduate from tights to grown-up woman nylons.

I had to laugh when I realized this. I really am fine not married, and I'm not really that jealous of those shiny rocks. I had never thought that of all the things I might envy when all my friends got married (being able to plan their future, starting their own family, their own kitchen, someone to hold them when they cry, someone to talk to every night, etc), it would be the most superficial that would bug me on a daily basis. But I think there's good (or at least justfiable) reason for it.

I'm in classes with almost all girls, almost all married girls. I never see them with their husbands, so I don't really envy them their husbands that much. I never see them in their kitchens, where the only dirty dishes are their own and everything is where they left it, so I don't often envy that. But everyday, as I glance side to side in my classes I see ringed hands resting on desks. I glance front, I see ringed hands. I look at the teacher, ringed. I walk in to class, and there are two different conversations going on: in one, three girls getting married over Christmas are comparing wedding plans; in the other, two already married girls are discussing going to their in-laws houses for the holidays. All around, girls are talking with their ringed hands. My bare little hand feel almost conspicuously naked in the crowd of glittering adornments.

Oh well, this doesn't mean much, but it made me laugh and think, and that's enough to write about any day.

The Cave

Contrary to the Plato-related blog those of you who paused too long in your contemplation of the title and in your philosophy education might have expected, this blog is about boys. That's right readers, you are reading a pink blog about relationships. Yes. I'm gagging, too. Stick with me and we can all brush our teeth after some group up-chuck therapy. We'll hold hands and skip later.
Recently I stayed up late talking with a close guy friend of mine. We've been a little bit of thick and thin together, and in a fit of late-night eloquent honesty, we discovered the gender gap. I was expressing my frustrations with getting another close guy friend to 'talk to me.' I told him how frustrating it was when a close friend goes completely noncommunicative for an extended period of time, and how maddening it is to have one's communication advances repeatedly, firmly, and indifferently denied. "It's the cave," my friend replied. Guys like to have their cave. That's where they go to think, to not think, to work things out, to observe life, etc. It is essentially their home base, default mode, and sanctuary.
My immediate reaction when someone I care about deeply and with whose happiness mine is in some small or large way tied starts retreating is to try to entice, beg, drag, or lure them back out into the open. My mind suggests all sorts of ways of doing this, from the friendly through the semi-plausible to the down right rediculous. I've even been tempted to play the damsel in emotional distress, just so they'll have to come rushing out of their cave to save me. Silly things like sitting outside their cave and saying a little too loudly, Fine, I'm sure glad no one's talking to me, because I don't want to talk to anyone! Unfortunately, petulant reverse psychology doesn't work on anyone.
Barring being able to drag my friend of his cave, my next instinct is to attempt to infiltrate it and take up residence on the inside. You want to sit alone? Great, I'll join you. You want to paint animals on the walls and reconnect with your primal manhood? Sweet! Sounds like fun, I'll grab the paint. Or, if I can't get inside or get them out, there's the report back to me demands. I'm fine if they go into their cave, as long as their back home for supper and tell me everything they did, thought, or felt while they were there. Reasonable, right?
*sigh* In conclusion, I can do anything but give someone space. Giving someone space is somehow completely backward, unnatural, and painful for me. Just when I feel like I'm losing someone is not the time I feel like wandering off to a different part of the mountain. That's when I want to be puppyguarding the cave, waiting eagerly for when they come out again, and calling frantically inside for them to come out soon. I'd hollow out whole mountains for my friend, but die before I let him stay in his cave. I'd rather take anger, melancholy, cynicism, irrational exuberance, or any other emotion rather than silence.
So, assuming my friend is right about boys, and assuming other girls have similiar tendencies to mine (risky assumptions, I know, but you've already read this far, are you really gonna give up now?), where does that leave the genders? The men are inside their caves, dealing with whatever they have to, and the women are wigging out on the outside. Faced with fears of losing them and being shut out forever, they are seriously distressed and upset, while the last thing men want to do is come out to that kind of emotional mess.
So there you have it, the gender gap. A wall of solid, natural, rock. A cave wall.

Ok reader, it's over now. Wipe your mouth, blow your nose, and remember: Optimism is brushing your teeth after the first time you throw up...

Is My Blog Pink??

Today I signed up for blogspot, mostly on a whim. More and more of my friends are using it, and I am mainly hoping that there'll be some cool feature that will tell me when my friends have updated their blogs. As much as I love checking multiple blogs daily so I stay up to date. I also got sick of signing my comments "anonymous." So I picked a name (anyone recognize the quote?) and started flipping through sample templates.

Since blogs seem to be virtual representations of one's personality, this is supposed to be a big decision. But I'm still in my pjs, and I'm still waking up, so who cares? I went with the template that I liked best on gut instinct. But, as I went to click Continue I realized that my choice would mean a pink blog. And I paused.

A pink blog? Am I ok with that? Will my readers think I have some sort of conservative-reactionary exaggerated feminity? For that matter, will I have any readers? And if I do, should I let the prospect of what my possible future readers might possibly think dictate my template choice? Of course, I can make the argument that this isn't really pink, it's more mauve, burgandy, wine, etc. And then of course, there are the personal considerations. Do I have some sort of reactionary exaggerated feminity because my instint went for the pink blog? There's a time when I would have headed straight for the black. Now I waffle between green and mauve. No question, I've gone soft. But don't worry imaginary readers, I'm not that soft. I can still out thrift store shop you.